


Jobs

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crushes, Humanstuck, M/M, The FELT is a group of rich kids, The Kidnight Crew, awkward kisses, fluffy fluff, they're about twelve years old in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:09:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1532006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're not responsible for anything other than what you signed up for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jobs

**Author's Note:**

> The first of a ton of SSDD I'll probably write. This is pretty much an excuse to write pointless fluff for these two. Takes place when they're young, about age 12 or so. Enjoy!
> 
> (EDIT: I CAN'T GET THE RIGHT PARAGRAPHING FOR THIS. I'M REALLY SORRY IT'S WRITTEN IN ONE BIG CHUNK!!! PLEASE FORGIVE ME ;A; )

     His face is dotted with tiny bruises, and his knees are covered with light cuts and scrapes, a few drops of fresh blood oozing from each. He’s not terribly injured, but the way he’s watching you is enough to prove that he needs your help. The expression he uses on you is weary, but vengeful. Laugh at me, I dare you, he says. Of course you’re not gonna laugh at him, you say. Injuries are no laughing matter, in your opinion. You care about him and your fellow Crew members, but you know you’ll never be as dedicated as he is. You can’t help but admire him for that.

     You all hadn’t even become a real gang until the first time you’d fought the Felt kids in fourth grade over some money Jack swore was his. They outnumbered your group of four by ten and owned way more gadgets and gizmos than you and the rest of the Crew combined, and you remember the feeling of defeat--and anger--you’d experienced when you went home with rips in your new trousers. Jack had felt it the worst, however. He’d locked himself in his room and wouldn’t come out, even when you and the other two had come over to console him. When he finally came out, Jack had a bible in his hand and a look of determination on his face. Never again, he vowed. Never again would the Felt beat you to the ground like that. He had you all put your left hands on the bible, recite some makeshift excuse of an oath, and then make you drop down and give him twenty, dammit. It wasn’t exactly the formal ceremony you’d wanted, but you’d done as he’d said. Afterwards, you’d suggested a nice game of 52-pickup to calm everyone down, but Jack said hell no, you had more gang business to attend to. After a long time of deliberating, you’d settled on calling yourselves the Midnight Crew--it was civilized and simple, you’d insisted, since you all lived in Midnight City--and had picked out your new identities. Jack had urged you all to forget his real name and use his new one, Spades Slick. You, due to your expensive clothes and sophisticated attitude, were labeled Diamonds Droog. The shortest kid in your group, with a knack for computers and getting away with everything, was dubbed Clubs Deuce. By process of elimination--and on the agreement that his romantic misfortunes made the naming obvious--the tallest boy in the Crew was now to be known as Hearts Boxcars. Slick had made a new rule that you’d call each other by these names at all costs, but you could never really bring yourself to abide by that rule when you and Spades were alone. It was the only rule you didn’t follow. Surprisingly, the Crew had taken Spades’s words quite seriously. You’d learned some pretty badass tricks using your favorite pool cue, and Clubs had taken a crash course--which may or may not have had the government sent after him--in bombs and how they worked. Spades himself had always been into knives... and throwing them. As a result, the whole Crew learned to dodge sharp blows pretty well. However, you’d lost fights in the beginning. The Felt’s little toys were just too good for you. Spades had beat himself up over and over for it, and you were always the one who’d be responsible for babysitting him when he was having one of his episodes. This is absolutely no different. Well, are you going to fix him or not, he snaps. You say fine, please calm down. He says no, he’s fucking bleeding, hurry the shit up already. You roll your eyes and grab the first-aid kit that you’ve placed on the shelf above your closet. You sigh at the realization that you’ll have to restock it...again. You ask if it was the Felt who cornered him. He says yeah. You say you thought so. He lets you patch up the small cuts on his knees, wincing as you put peroxide in them so they're clean. You say it'll be less painful if he doesn't thrash around like a little bitch. A mumbled string of profanities is the response. You put the bandages on the larger cuts, then leave for a moment to get a few ice packs for the bruises on his arms and legs. When you return, Slick is muttering something about how he can take care of himself. You say that's bullshit. Slick says you're bullshit. You don't answer and put the ice pack on his leg. He shuts up. An awkward silence ensues. He looks up at you, a bit differently this time. Expectantly, like he's waiting for you to do something. You happen to know exactly what that something is. You lean forward and press your lips against his, feather-light, for the smallest of moments before pulling back. It's customary. You always do that with Jack whenever he needs you. It isn't a big show of affection on your part, not really. (Although admittently, you've never done the same with Deuce or Boxcars, and neither has Jack.) It's not a kiss for you. It's part of the job description. But this time, he stays. He stays with his bruised face close to yours, close enough so you can look straight into his irises and not through them, like you normally do. It's such a surprise that you drop the ice pack that you've placed on his leg. His eyes are deep. Full of determination, caring, feeling. Your own seem dead in comparison. You ask him, softly, if he's feeling alright in the head. If he has a concussion, you shouldn't be so close to him, shouldn't have your forehead gently bumped against his. He says he feels fine. You say you don't believe him. He says you should. You feel the slightest bit of pressure against your own mouth, the slightest bit of warmth. When you manage to make sense of it, though, it's already gone. His cheeks are hot when you graze your fingertips over them. Your own start to burn after realizing your actions. You say his name, his real name. Jack. He says yours. You feel an astounding want to stay in this position. Stay where you can feel his breath against your face--he has a habit of mouth-breathing--and where you can almost hear his heartbeat but not quite. But you can't. This is a business relationship. You only do what you're supposed to, nothing more, nothing less. You're the one responsible for keeping Jack somewhat tolerable for the others, but you've done your part already. It's pointless and unnecessary to continue this. Well, that's what one part of you says. The intelligent part. The part of you that's pure, uncultured instinct wants you to reapproach him, wrap your arms around his waist, feel his chapped lips pressed against your own again. Maybe more. But you can't let that happen. Not with your job as his right-hand-man on the chopping block. So you stand and brush the lint and gathered dust off your trousers, straighten your tie, run a hand through your hair to ensure no flyways are present. Jack looks slightly disgruntled, but he doesn't say anything on the subject. You ask if he needs anything else. Jack shakes his head no. You say okay. The rest of the time he spends with you is in nail-biting silence.


End file.
